Category Archives: sociology

Pedigree.

classical music, Deep Thoughts, performance, psychology, relationships, sociology, , , , , , , , , ,

 

*Author’s Note:  The point of contention addressed by this piece turned out to be a semantic misunderstanding. However, the greater issue is believed by the author to be important enough to render the piece a valid contribution to the overriding dialogue. Thank you all for reading.

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I just spent the evening with a table full of qualified professionals. A remarkable collective, really. One award winning, internationally celebrated soloist (who really was the life of the party); two versatile percussionists, one of them on the brink of completing a doctorate in music theory, the other executive director of a symphony orchestra; at least one opera composer, with a history as a Metropolitan tenor; an accomplished flutist with an arts management degree, currently in charge of a chamber orchestra; a harpsichordist, with a doctorate in musical arts and an international resume as performer and juror; a tubist, with a full time college instructorship and a degree in music administration; a published historian and ethnomusicologist; a science education specialist; and, two arts marketing associates.

Oh; and: me.

Having chosen to save my earnings for many years, at this juncture I hold few of what most would call printed credentials. Beyond the undergraduate degree in music education, I carry nothing on paper except the music currently on the docket in my satchel, and a recorded resume of nearly a lifetime of works performed.

Perhaps somewhat blindly, I operated for over two decades under the erroneous assumption that doing was of greater value than submitting time and money to training. I truly believed that demonstrating a capacity to execute at a high level carried its own legitimacy.

But, subtly, time made its indelible mark on all that. Now, I find myself surrounded by individuals who easily welcome each other into their “ranks” – be they academia, or administration, or the world stage – in an unspoken acknowledgement of collegiality. They arrive, resumes in tow, and receive automatic power of place.

Last fall, I purchased a coveted musical instrument: a brand new Steinway Model M grand piano. This investment was made possible by a lifetime of daily effort – working in public education as a music teacher, performing in two local orchestras, and saving most of my income for the future. Contrary to what may be assumed, I took not a penny from either my father or my mother, or anybody else, to finance this acquisition.

My father, a self-employed barber, counted his money on the kitchen table every Friday night, stacking the coin and single bills. A self-employed seamstress and part time semi-automatic machine operator, my mother had saved  – at the time of her death – some $70,000 which was placed into an annuity and eventually divided equally between her three offspring. My portion remains in an interest bearing account. No; I did not use that small inheritance to purchase this piano.

But, there are those who raise at least a corner of an eyebrow when they find out that the girl who never made it onto the roster of the academically accomplished found enough cash for a Steinway. Such valued instruments are customarily seen only amongst the performance elite. And, in order to be considered among them, one must present, you guessed it: the pedigree.

Well, allow me.

The term “pedigree” is used most commonly to define the breeding history of domestic animals. When I hear anybody utter the word, I experience a momentary reaction. My body adjusts its position, and the image of a stiffly postured, condescending British male in a topcoat and dress hat, with neck scarf and walking stick, takes shape in my consciousness.

Apart from that bestowed by both my parents, and their parents before them, I have none such. What I bring to the table are the fingers and thumbs on my two hands, the arms that bear them, and the mind and heart that drives them to action. There may not be a credentialed appointment with my name attached, but there will be music made, just the same.

After enjoying a sumptuous dinner of steak and potatoes, and sharing a chocolate dessert with my dinner companions I managed to offend at least one of them by inquiring into her position and misappropriating a term by identifying a colleague, whose position had been eliminated, as her mentor. She insisted that her pedigree didn’t include the referenced colleague at all. Apparently, when one has reached high rank, one doesn’t take kindly to being diminished by assumptions regarding how such status was achieved. There is a protocol to this business of acknowledgement, after all – and, arriving uninformed is the first insult.

To combat loneliness in advancing age, acquiring a pet is strongly advised. I’m told that lap dogs, for those allergic to cat dander, are portable and can even be house trained. After tonight, I’ve decided to seriously consider various breeds. Mine would have to be small, sweet, bright, and alert, but quiet and affectionate. Perhaps I should spend concentrated effort in this search; after all,  if people really see this here girl only as a barber’s daughter who happens to love the hell out of playing the piano and cello, a dog with a real pedigree might be just the ticket to save her from total oblivion.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  2/14/16    All rights those of the author, even if she doesn’t have her own office. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Do Not Be Afraid.”

Christianity, classical music, classical musicians, faith, Judaism, Judao-Christian theology, love, mystical experience, sociology, tributes, , , ,
“Do not be afraid………..
you……are mine.”   — Isaiah 43.
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Choral music used to be a given in mainstream American life. From the patriotic holidays through the public school concerts, the sound of people singing in four part harmony presented by a collective larger than a family around a piano seemed impermeable by any shift in the cultural wind.
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Little would any of us in arts education realize that the times, and the weather, would change so profoundly. In the five final years of my public tenure, I had to endure being told there would no longer be time in the daily elementary school schedule for a chorus class. And — my students!  Two part harmony, among primary aged children. But, oh. Yes. Better, so said the powers that assumed authority, that time be spent bouncing a ball around or chasing another – or, eating soy patties on roll with boiled vegetables. Time, and money, going instead toward that which bailed on a vital source of nourishment.
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Nourishment, you argue. Singing with other humans as anything more than a casual diversion?
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This past Friday night, I’d been invited to perform as cellist with the northwestern Pennsylvania District 2 Student High School Chorus. My instrument, a clarinet, and a horn, had been added to one of several pieces of music programmed for their public concert. And, we enjoyed our collaboration, immensely. The students had come from among the very best their schools had to offer, and their guest conductor was nothing short of a marvel.
Happy with our performance, we’d left the stage intending to take in the remainder of the concert. Waiting at the auditorium door for the signal of applause, we’d stepped discreetly into the back of the hall. The temperature elevated by a packed house, a rush of body heat flooded us. And, the room was dark. But, what was about to emanate from the fully illuminated stage would render all senses irrelevant.
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I’d been impressed by Dr. Christopher Kiver, from the moment we’d been introduced. He had 200 + high school students in the palm of his hand. A Brit, his dry, observational humor infused his every breath, capturing the students’ imagination as he wove them from rhythmic riffs through the contours of phrase. Further investigation revealed that Dr. Kiver had proved his worth far and wide, known for his work with students at Penn State University and beyond.
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But, what happened to me in the moments about to ensue as I stood in that dark auditorium I owe only in part to his expertise. The rest I leave to the reader, and the mysteries of the universe.
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Dr. Kiver had chosen the program. A panel had chosen the soloists, from among several auditionees, one of whom had just completed her offering. The order of selections sat in my bag on the floor, unreadable in the dark. Two female choristers took their places across the front of the stage, and Dr. Kiver raised his baton to the choir.
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Their pure unison tone began, hushed, absolutely controlled. Each syllable measured, the opening phrase emerged in one, clear, enveloping voice:
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“Do……not………be……..afraid……………………………………….”
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The harmonies expanded. Their sustain was seamless.
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“Do…….not………be………afraid……………………………………..”
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Without any warning, whatsoever, the choir became one voice in the firmament.
The verses unfolded; I recognized them as scripture. But, the music had transcended thought, to become the vehicle of the oracle of the divine.
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Standing in the dark, I was a child again. The world around me, and everyone else, all of us terror-stricken, shell shocked, every institution threatened, all future expectations uncertain, but this voice. It were as if the God of my childhood were speaking directly to me, my eternal protector, the loving Creator who had promised me everlasting safety.
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Tears poured down my face. Everyone around me was spellbound, as well. We were all collective witness to the deepest of human power, manifesting the very message for which we were starving, through the only art form that could possibly have carried it to us.  We didn’t have to fear. We had been redeemed. We were still loved, perfectly. And, our God had just sung us a lullaby.
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….When you walk through the waters,
I’ll be with you;
you will never sink beneath the waves.
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When the fire is burning all around you,
you will never be consumed by the flames.
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When the fear of loneliness is looming,
then remember I am at your side.
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When you dwell in the exile of a stranger,
remember you are precious in my eyes.
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You are mine, O my child,
I am your Father,
and I love you with a perfect love.”
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“Do Not Be Afraid” —  Philip Stopford.
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© 2/6/16 Ruth Ann Scanzillo   — Thank you for your respect, both for the created work of Philip Stopford, the interpretation of Dr. Kiver and this, my piece.
littlebarefeetblog.com

In Sight.

Christian fundamentalism, creative writing, family history, Fundamentalism, grief, human behavior, nostalgia, psychology, relationships, sectarian Fundamentalism, social behavior, sociology, , , , , , , ,
“Married At First Sight” on FYI fascinates me. Two psychologists and a sexologist pair up single, independents who have failed to sustain a committed relationship. They meet at the altar, and we watch the rest. After 8 weeks, the couples must choose either to remain together, or to divorce – their climactic, camera-captured conclusion a life lived in fast forward.
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Take a rewind.
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 I used to have a friend. Her grandmother found an eligible young man in Scotland, and arranged for them to meet. A brief courtship ensued, largely from a distance. He proposed, they married, I sang and played at the wedding, everybody ate caramelized bacon and a full sit down, and then the happy pair flew off for the Isle of Skye.
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By the end of the first year, they were already welcoming the first of three sons and a daughter. My three visits – separated by a year, a decade, and seven, respectively – provided me limited, if memorable, observable data. I could only draw conclusions based upon the crystallized aspects of my friend’s personality. Somewhere between the children, the Abbeys, Selkirk, the rare highland walk, and the Edinburgh Fringe, that’s exactly what I did.
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By all accounts, 32 years this October, the two of them are still together. That’s the least surprising fact. In a culture virtually dictated by one David Hume*, maintaining a public protocol of refinement and propriety is paramount. It’s the very fiber of the society. In turn, fidelity and commitment to the institution, let alone the sacrament, of marriage goes without saying. So, staying married is pretty much the given.
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Oh; and, even as recently as 30 years ago, there were still Scots to whom the clan was the Word. This potential husband was none other than a third cousin, once removed, or some version of said descriptor. Yes; blood relatives. Proof? Her youngest brother was already carrying her new surname – in between his first and last. To my knowledge, he’s never left Buffalo.
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Yes; in spite of my three attempts to nurture what had begun in childhood by the only means available during the pre-Internet age – traveling across the ocean – her marriage would prove more durable than any relationship she’d ever had with me.
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Strangely, we had also been introduced by a third party. Our parents were all members of the same non-denominational Christian sect and, although separated from the world at large by strict dogma, were only separated from each other by a few miles and one state border.
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But, because each assembly of said Fundamentalists was characteristically small in number, there was an unspoken intention to generate continuity among its young by bringing them together in as many ways as could be contrived.
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Our earliest visits, for me, were really special. Those from my small city were working class and, while my parents were among its most well respected, her family were merchants well into the second generation and held a pre-eminent place in their small, New York town. In addition, trained well to be of superior hospitality, when they opened their home to my parents it were as if the Queen of England had deigned a major reception.
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I can’t pinpoint when we became each other’s friend, per se. She had multiple siblings and, apart from the brother who was born the same year as I but who almost never spoke audibly, were closest in age. Their house was always buzzing and bustling with laughter, gourmet food preparation, and wide-ranging conversation. They asked all the questions and my family, starved for this kind of welcoming attention, held forth for hours on end, oblivious of any agenda.
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As time passed, our social encounters increased. They lived on the private drive of a country club, overlooking the same lake which provided us a state park peninsula of free beaches across the border. Swimming and chicken fights, bonfires and s’mores were their offerings throughout the summer and, when travel permitted, tobogganing and real hot chocolate in winter. My eldest brother, old enough to be married, created a Hallowe’en haunted barn and hayride on his wife’s farm, a titillating event we would anticipate every year thereafter – in the dark, on the haywagon, she and I, my younger brother and her older sister and all her strapping, handsome brothers none of whom had the slightest time of day for me beyond a jostle against the bales. I had a transparent crush on her eldest, hers on my younger expertly veiled, neither of us ever realizing our longings for either brother but, reaching our teens, crowning it all by taking on the moniker of becoming roommates at the annual Eastern Bible Conference at Grove City College.
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In our miniature subculture, these were the parameters which defined friendship. There were no dances, no illicit parties. The boys were rumored gadabouts, but this was their birthright; as a girl, I never knew much choice, when it came to traits in others which I would grow to appreciate or to which I might recognize myself drawn. In fact, should I become attracted to anyone outside of this realm, assimilation was nigh impossible. Adding the element of proper English Romance novels, the dimension of fantasy easily beckoned, and my submission was all too willing.
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Somewhere between the second and third visit “across”, life experience finally having made its indelible mark on decades of escape, realization began to gel. Perhaps it was the wedding gift, arduous hours of handiwork producing two full color, framed renderings of myself and another mutual friend, so casually misplaced and then practically thrown in my face as I lay cowering under the bedcovers in forced penitence for even raising the subject; perhaps the invitation to perform a Chopin Nocturne for visiting friends, its final pianissimo chord truncated by her loud and mood-hijacking assertions; perhaps it was the toddling along, as a fully fledged adult, being introduced to stable barons and architects and then promptly ignored as if the role were to be that of stray hoping for scraps. Perhaps it was the little flat in the center of town, for which I’d expressed both interest and capital, and a willingness to time share, which was curiously prevented by the local bank. Whichever. The awareness dawned far too slowly, and expensively, in the end; no amount of childhood generosities returned or desire to create greater proximity for both myself and her family could, apparently, sustain something that did not, in fact, exist at all. I had been some enforced presence, possibly a burden borne for too many years of trained tolerance. I was nothing more than a starling, planted in her path by loving and earnest parents, intended to teach the art of acceptance, patience, and charity. She had outgrown me, and I would be the last to know.
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There were whisperings, in the kitchen, that ceased when I entered. There were references to her husband not being “keen” on my visits, my reminding him of another “teacher” friend who would bore. It was August of 2001, and I would head home to arrive on American soil a scant two weeks before 9/11 – but, not before my own warning about terrorism being the most looming threat to our safeties having been met with remote, eye rolling reticence. Ironically, I would be able to use fear of air travel, and its inevitable profiling, as excuse never to return.
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Rumor has it, social status is still important in her corner of the planet. The marriage, and the family which is now busily producing its next generation, has deliberately endured. All are within walking distance of most of life’s essentials. Money, an object in the past, has returned to its proper place of casual deference. Both patriarchs have passed on, their widowed matriarchs enjoying the fruits and her marriage having taken its rightful throne.
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Arranged, contrived, calculated, constructed; refined, buffed and polished, lives carefully chosen for only their finest attributes, somewhere between a rocky, ocean crag’s gooseberry patch, a tenement row, and a grande cobblestone the world’s tiniest notion of civilization waits for no stranger. I’ve said my “goodbyes”, long ago, to that which only existed just beyond my alleged entitlement. The reality show camera will roll on, sure as the hills of bonnie Scotland, to find its next version of the untold truth.
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(* Yeah. I wrote a paper. Ivy league-generated Professor Jeremy L. Smith has it in his stash.)
© 2/3/16 Ruth Ann Scanzillo
All rights, in part or whole, those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above. Thank you for respecting fantasy, the stuff of unrealized dreams.
littlebarefeetblog.com